Then I met Dylan—tattooed, badass, always-hard Dylan. He’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever been with before. Just one night can’t hurt me.
But sometimes when you play with fire, you get burned.
I sneak another peek and bingo! I finally see his face.
God, his face…
Now that I see it, I’m not sure I can ever look away. It’s striking. Stunning. Strangely beautiful.
His eyes are inset, his jaw and nose strong. And his mouth—perfect, his lips full but not girly. They’re sin and sex, yet, as he smirks at something on his phone, also quite boyish. It’s the kind of mouth I could stare at for hours, watching the way it shapes words and slides into smiles. The kind of mouth that feels good to kiss and better to suck and my, oh, my, I bet he sucks down there so right I wouldn’t need to grab a vibrator after.
Where the hell did that come from? I’m not a prude, but having dirty thoughts about men in bars is really not my style.
It’s a sign of stress, that’s all. In my mind, Beautiful Tattooed Boy is the personification of chance encounters and not having a plan. It’s the other road—the road I didn’t take. Correction—wouldn’t take. He’s nice to look at, but other than that, we’d probably clash. Big time. I’m only attracted to him because, although I’m happy with my choices and my plans, I can’t help being curious about what else might have been.
Yeah. That’s totally it.
But what if I’m more than curious?